


I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like A Memory

by bdiddy150 (dismalspacenoodle)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: @ bibliographies y u gotta hurt me like this, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Ouch, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, alexander hamilton is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:02:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7434332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalspacenoodle/pseuds/bdiddy150
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Hamilton never wanted to survive the duel?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like A Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Based on me, being a nerd and reading like a million things about Alexander Hamilton and finding a gem that said "okay, but consider this-- he DIDN'T want to live?????" and me going "well darn can't argue with that"  
> TW: in the tags, but to repeat: suicidal actions, thoughts, and everything that goes along with it. Mentions of cheating (with Maria), unintentional assisted suicide

Alexander Hamilton died on a sunny day, the light fading from his eyes before the sun rose far enough to banish the mist blanketing the rolling hills. Alexander Hamilton died from a gunshot wound, a bullet lodged between his ribs, blood bleeding out of his side as he fell onto the dirt at Weehawken, the pale dawn glow still too dim to see his face as he died, but bright enough for it to shine a horrible, sickening red, his body betraying him as it desperately pumped his life force onto the ground beside him in a pitiful attempt to keep him alive.

No one really knows _when_ he died, not exactly. History books will tell you, he was shot by Aaron Burr on that painfully spring-like morning, despite it being July in New Jersey, but that didn’t kill him—not really. The truth was, Alexander Hamilton died long before that.

Alexander Hamilton died on November 24th, 1801. He looked at his son, looked at the hand he was clutching, despite the pulse having faded away, and thought of all he’d done to end up there—it was always about Alexander Hamilton, the bastard, whoreson, immigrant, who rose to the top of a brand-new nation—it was always about the man who created the banking system for what would become the most powerful country in the world. It was never about Alex, the father of Philip and husband of Eliza. He married the most wonderful woman he ever had the pleasure of meeting, then sent her away so he could work on a “banking plan”—who was that for? The _country_? Why; no, _how_ could he ever imagine that a country’s _finances_ meant more than his wife and son? And then he turned around and bed Miss Maria Reynolds ( _stupid, stupid, stupid_ ), payed her husband off to keep doing it, and of course it came out. No betrayal so terrible could go unpunished, nor could any good deed—all he had been trying to do was benefit the place he had strived so hard to create, and he ended up ruining himself.

And then—and then he let his son die for what? His _honor_? Philip had run to him, shaking with suppressed nerves, begging him for advice, and what had he done? He shoved a gun into his hands and said, “Make me proud, son.”  He spent a life “too busy” for a family, shipping one of the few people in his life that he loved with everything he had, and then sent him off to die over some petty disagreement.

Alexander Hamilton died that night, his soul flitting away and leaving an empty carcass in its place.

Six years later, he stood before his wife, longingly gazing at her from the doorway of their—her’s, now, because being invited back into the room didn’t mean he had a place in her heart or home—with the pen he had used to write his way from the Caribbean to New York clutched tight in his hands.

He wasn’t a sentimental person, by any means, but the worn cherry wood, splattered by ink, had been with him longer than anything in his life—longer than his mother, longer than Laurens, longer than Philip—and if anyone knew him, they knew not to touch the unassuming pen that rested upon his desk at all times.

Eliza had looked up at him blearily, the haze of sleep having not yet left her vision, confusion setting in as he pressed the pen into her hands. She had pleaded with him to come back to bed, to go back to sleep, and he had simply shook his head, tears filling his eyes and breaking his voice as he told her exactly what she was—the best of wives; the best of women. The best thing that could and would ever happen to him.

He had turned round on his heel, slowly retreated from the house, running his fingers gently over the notches in the walls left by his rambunctious children ( _John had run in through the door, books in hand and chased by Philip and James as they dashed about, ricocheting off the walls and nearly tearing holes in the horrendous wallpaper Eliza had picked out—though she still swore to defend it until the day she died_ ), glanced wistfully at the stain left by little Angelica when she disagreed particularly strongly with Eliza’s choice of dinner (“ _How on earth could a four-year-old hurl a slice of pork that high?” Eliza had protested as Alexander laughed; the girl had her aunt’s ferocity_ ), and was finally brought to the end of the entrance hallway, facing the door with trembling hands and smudged glasses, a pistol in his pocket and his jaw set.

He thought it fitting to die so near to his son, one Hamilton full of bravery ( _youthful stupidity, he could see now what Washington had always tried to teach him_ ), the other finally ready to find peace in nothingness or pay for his crimes in Hell.

He never wanted to kill Burr, not for a second—never wanted to raise a gun to the face of the first friend he made—but found that fitting, too. His life arguably started when he arrived in America and met Aaron Burr, it was right that it would end there, too.

Of course, his life didn’t really start in America, nor did it end in front of Burr—it started in Nevis and ended with his son’s. Still.

So he put on his glasses, he pulled out his pistol and counted to ten and fired his shot—and to his dying day, his aim remained true, driving the bullet through the branch directly above Burr’s head—and Burr’s wild aim flew off its mark and hit him in the side, but it was enough.

And they say Aaron Burr shouted a desperate plea to “ _wait!_ ” into the frigid morning air, but the truth was, no one knows who did.

Whether or not it was Aaron or Alexander, Aaron really paid the price—for what punishment was it for a dead man walking to finally achieve peace? And Aaron was the villain and Alexander was the hero except neither of them were either, they were just human beings who made mistakes, both of them one too many.

And after that shot went off, it was too late for either of them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So!! Fun fact, a few scholars have actually indicated that Hamilton was actually trying to die when this duel took place-- he wore his glasses as to avoid shooting Burr; Hamilton was renowned for his marksmen's abilities and if he had wanted to hit Burr, he would've, but the bullet flew about his head and hit a branch.  
> Also, s/o to whoever finds the (pretty obvious) Wicked reference-- I've gotta pay homage to the musical that dragged me into this mess and the only thing I ever saw on Broadway (living on the west coast is hell in both weather and seeing original Broadway casts preform...).  
> As always, drop a comment if there's something out of place or you just wanna say hi (please do comments and kudos give me lyf) and hmu at lagayette-the-frenchiest-fry on tumblr


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